


Kintsukuroi

by pearwaldorf



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Episode 69 spoilers, Fictober 2016, Gen, Heavy-handed metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: Jarett pauses, trying to figure out his words. “I do not believe it is your fighting skills that need to be tended to. And that I am no expert in. Tomorrow, after breakfast, go see Pike at the temple. I believe there is work for you to do there.” Kynan bows his head. “All right.” He understands he is here by the grace of Vox Machina and its associates, and if they bid, he will do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes I know it's already jossed. Pretend I posted this before episode 70 aired.)
> 
> For the Fictober prompt "heart".

Kynan knows he’s a capable fighter. He trained hard after being sent away from Greyskull Keep, and whatever else he can say about Anna Ripley (his brain skirts around most of that, because it’s still too much), she made sure he had the best combat instructors her money could procure. So, understandably, he is confused when Jarett puts his sword down and looks at him. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” They’ve been going through weapons drills for the better part of a day. He’s pretty decent with daggers, although he’s never going to be as good as Vax. His sword and shield are passable, and he looks forward to learning more. 

“Not at all. You are, in fact, a remarkable fighter for someone your age.” He tries not to blush, and fails. Jarett’s Marquesian accent lilts, making everything, but especially compliments, sound beautiful. 

“There’s something else then.” Kynan’s heart sinks. He’s been here less than a week and already he’s managed to screw up, or offend. 

Jarett pauses, trying to figure out his words. “I do not believe it is your fighting skills that need to be tended to. And that I am no expert in. Tomorrow, after breakfast, go see Pike at the temple. I believe there is work for you to do there.” 

He bows his head. “All right.” He understands he is here by the grace of Vox Machina and its associates, and if they bid, he will do.

Jarett slings an arm over his shoulders. “But that is for tomorrow. Would you like me to show you an old dagger trick I learned in Marquet?” 

Kynan smiles. “Yeah, I would.” 

\--

Now that he’s not being dragged along with a dead body, he has time to look around the temple of Sarenrae. It is small, with not much more than a lashed canvas roof and the barest suggestions of stone walls. He steps inside, and finds Pike at the altar. 

It is the only thing in the temple that can be described as complete. Already there is a statue of the goddess Herself, wings flared, arms open in welcome. A scimitar hangs at Her hip. At the base of the statue there are no flowers, because they are not growing currently, but instead there are tied bundles of healing herbs left as offerings. There is a smell of incense wafting through the air, freshly lit. 

Pike stands in front of the altar. She’s not doing anything, just staring up at the statue. He doesn’t actually know what clerics or paladins do, but he assumes some of that time is spent in prayer. Maybe that’s what this is. 

He stands quietly, not really knowing if it would be rude to interrupt, or if he’ll screw up some ritual she’s doing. He stands until his feet start getting tired, and he shifts his weight. Pike still doesn’t move. A little breeze blows through the temple, and some incense must get into his nose, because he sneezes. 

The reverent hush is broken, and Pike turns around. When she sees him, her expression becomes mortified. “Oh no! Have you been there the whole time?” 

Kynan shrugs. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be. “Jarett said you had work for me.”

She reaches out, putting her hands over his. “Thank you for coming. Sometimes I have a few others, but they were needed elsewhere today, so I’m glad you’re here.” She squeezes his hand, and something in his chest twinges.

“Whatever you need me to do,” he says. 

Pike laughs. “What _don’t_ I need you to do?” She stops, looking around the room. Her eyes light on something, and her expression becomes thoughtful. “How is your carpentry?” 

He follows her line of sight to a table, cracked almost all the way through. It is, somehow (he supposes someone more religious would call it miraculously), still holding together. 

“I know a little bit.” The tables in his father’s shop always suffered a great deal of abuse, and every winter, they would spend time scraping them smooth and resealing them. This table is more damaged than anything he’s ever worked on.

“Good! Then you’re officially the expert here.” She points to the table. “I need that repaired.”

“But I’ve never--” He doesn’t want to disappoint a member of Vox Machina, especially one who’s been so kind to him, but he’s not sure he’s skilled enough to put it back together. 

“Kynan.” Pike’s voice is gentle but firm. “We’re all going to be doing things we haven’t done before, that we don’t know if we’ll succeed at. But not trying isn’t an option.” She runs a thumb over her holy symbol, worrying at one particular spot. “And if there’s a chance we can put something broken back together, we should try our best to do so, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.” 

She smiles, bright like he imagines holy fire, and he understands another reason why the rest of the group was so glad to see her. “I’ll leave you to your work, then.”

He finds a scraper and planes down the jagged edges along the sides of the crack. The wood is hard, and the going is slow, slower than he thinks he can stand. But he thinks of Pike’s quiet confidence, and presses on. In the rhythm of the work there is a settled quiet: not exactly peace, but close enough. Finally, the crack is smooth as he can make it. He asks around and acquires a pot of resin, large enough to fill the gap. Only when it looks smooth and clear does he finally sit down. 

Pike appears with some food. It’s nothing fancy: a bowl of stew, water, some bread and cheese. “I thought you might be hungry,” she says. He was so focused on his work that he didn’t have time to be, but now he’s so famished he feels weak. He does his best not to bolt down the food, knowing he’ll be sick if he does, but it’s difficult.

While he eats, she glances at his hands, frowning. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.” There are splinters he’ll need to pick out, scratches that will need to be attended to. It’s part of the work, nothing he can’t handle himself.

She reaches out. “Please, let me.” He nods, and she clasps his hands with one of her own, the other gripping her holy symbol. She whispers an incantation, and a small flash of light emanates from around her neck. He feels a pulse of what must be magic around his hands, and he looks at them, astonished. They are free of splinters and cuts, as unmarked as when he entered the temple. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“It was nothing, but you’re welcome.” Of course somebody with the power to bring back the dead would consider healing magic trivial, but it is still a marvel to Kynan. 

He picks up his dishes and rises to his feet. “The resin will need a day or so to dry, but--” He stops when he sees the table. The wide line of dark, sticky liquid has been replaced with a bright filling of gold. 

“Do you--do you see that?” His voice squeaks in astonishment. 

Pike cranes her head. As she looks on the surface of the table and figures out what happened, she laughs, loud and bright and amused. Her eyes shine as she looks up at him.

“Kynan, this is a sign of Sarenrae’s blessing. She’s pleased with your work.” 

He’s not really sure how to respond to this. As much as he dreamed of great adventures, and wanted so desperately to earn the regard of a band of heroes he admired (a lifetime ago it seems), he has never given the gods much thought. They don’t tend to notice people like him, if they think of them at all. 

“I didn’t do much,” he says finally. 

“I think She might beg to differ,” Pike replies solemnly. He’s about to apologize for blaspheming, but her face is just a little bit too serious, and he laughs too. 

There is noise outside the temple: the sound of people coming back in from the fields, closing up shops, heading home to their families. He hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, and the way Pike tilts her head, listening, she probably didn’t either.

She touches his arm. “I think you’ve done more than enough work today. You should go enjoy yourself.” He nods. 

The light of the tavern catches his eye, and he goes in. A drink after a hard day’s work and all that excitement sounds like a really good idea.

As he settles into a table in the corner, he sees Jarett enter, and catches his eye. Once Jarett has his mug, he sits down.

“Did Pike have work for you to do?” He asks.

“She did.” He doesn’t feel like elaborating on what happened at the temple today. It’s still strange, and he needs to sit with it a bit more. 

“Do you think this is better suited for your state of mind?” 

“For now.” He finds the realization settles something in him, like he’s finally figured out what he needs to do. “But I'd like to work more with you later, when it changes.”

Jarett grins and slaps him on the shoulder. “I look forward to it.” He raises his mug. “To new beginnings, my boy.” 

Kynan taps his mug against Jarett’s, echoing the other man’s words. They drink deep, and the ale courses through him like a benediction, warming and comforting. Maybe things will be all right for him after all.


End file.
